stifled innocence
by cumberpatchcats
Summary: sometimes one figures it out, but holds one's tongue and pretends not to notice because one simply does not want to believe it. That goes double for traumatic experiences. (parentlock, warnings: sexual abuse, child molestation)


**warning: sexual abuse, child molestation**

* * *

"Hamish. Hamish, _Hamish_! You put that pair of scissors down right now young man or so help me you will not see the light of day for a week!"

"Hamish, I swear to god if you don't stop smearing your hands in that confounded pig's blood I won't be taking you to the park this afternoon."

"Christ, Hamish, how in the _world_ did you manage to cut your knee open like that?"

"Calm yourself, John. He'll be in school soon."

"Not soon enough."

* * *

Hamish started primary school two weeks after his fourth birthday. Even Sherlock was convinced to see his son off on such a momentous occasion. "I don't see why I have to be there, John, every kid goes to school." "And every kid graduates. You're saying you wouldn't go to Hamish's graduation either, then?" To which Sherlock gave a shocked expression and replied "you're making me go to that, too?"

John rolled his eyes at that.

It was funny how Hamish, such a rowdy, loud child could become so shy in an instant. His tiny hand around Sherlock's finger, gripping just about as tight as any four year old could, his entire body shielded by his father's tall, rather intimidating presence.

When John tried to coax Hamish away from Sherlock, the child only shook his head wildly, dark curls bouncing on the top of his head.

"Hamish, you've got to go now. _We've_ got to go now. Daddy and papa have work to do, and Hamish needs to go to school. Do you understand me?" John knelt in front of his son and stared him straight in the eyes.

Sherlock followed in John's footsteps, dropping to his knees beside Hamish and gripping the young boy's shoulders tight. "Go, Hamish. And maybe if I'm in the area, papa will buy you a nice long book on dinosaurs to read to you tonight."

Hamish looked at his father skeptically, as if unsure whether to believe Sherlock or not, but ultimately gave in and nodded.

"Good," John sighed in relief before giving Hamish a quick kiss on the top of his head and sending him off on his merry way to play with the other children.

Watching their son run off towards education was actually more fulfilling than Sherlock had expected. Not that he would ever mention it to John, of course.

And when they two of them hopped into the cab, John gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze. "You spoil that child," to which Sherlock raised an eyebrow and answered, "and you don't?"

John couldn't argue with that.

* * *

Perhaps Sherlock was worried. Hamish bared a striking resemblance to him (which was obviously expected, seeing as he was the one who provided the genetic sample), all dark curls and high cheekbones and knobby knees. He was an intelligent boy, too. Whether his intelligence would one day be on par with Sherlock's, time was too young to tell, but it was clear the boy had potential. He was as curious as Sherlock was and just as interested in internal organs. All that was fine, of course, but still Sherlock couldn't help but worry. Sherlock was an introvert. A rude, snappy child who didn't know the difference between ethical and unethical and always spoke his mind, pointing out people's flaws at his leisure. As a result, he didn't grow up very popular. In fact, Mycroft had always made fun of him for being excluded in school. He was teased and picked on, and by the time he entered secondary school, the teasing turned physical, which closed him off from social interaction further, which contributed to more beatings, which closed him up even further in an endless cycle of growing hate towards the human species. Hamish could take after him in physical appearance and common interest, but Sherlock would never forgive himself if his son became an introvert, if he began coming home with bruises across his face.

Luckily, Hamish was kind. After a fraught first week, Hamish began looking forward to school. "Daddy, daddy we're going to be late," he'd say as he pulled his lazy parents' arms and dragged them out of bed. School was fun, he had since decided. He was learning how to read and write and color in the lines, and most of all, he was making friends. The other children took interest in Hamish, and Hamish in them. He shared his toys and knew how to take turns and returned all the crayons to the center of the table instead of hogging them all at his side like Andrew did.

John and Sherlock couldn't have been prouder. Hamish was running through the playground and laughing and playing make-believe just like any normal little boy should. It took Sherlock some convincing to understand the educational values of make-believe in the first place (Sherlock, he believes he's a superhero. He's saving the damsels in distress, it's a moralistic concept. And don't look at me like that, mister I-want-to-be-a-pirate) but in the end, Sherlock was the one providing Hamish with adequate capes.

* * *

It started six weeks after year one began.

"How was school today, Hamish?" John asked when he came to pick up his son.

Unlike chattering away about every single detail as usual, Hamish remained peculiarly silent. John was a bit worried. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

Hamish only shook his head slowly. "I have a headache."

John gave him a frown. "All right. We'll get some medicine at home."

Once entering the flat, however, Hamish took to bounding straight up the stairs. John called out for him to come get some medicine, only to get an "it's gone now" out of Hamish's mouth.

When Sherlock emerged with a magnifying glass in one hand and a beaker of clear liquid in another, he raised an eyebrow at his husband. "Medicine? Is he sick?"

John shrugged. "He said he had a headache. I guess it's gone now."

"Oh."

* * *

Hamish's headaches became more frequent. Almost daily, John noted. Every time either parent brought up school, Hamish would hold his head in his hands and begin to whimper as if in excruciating pain. When John offered him relief, however, he announced that his headache had gone away and proceeded to act normal again until the subject of school came around again.

"He's obviously faking it," Sherlock deduced one night in bed.

"Yeah, I know that." John dog-eared a page in his book and closed it. "He's avoiding school. I don't know why, though. He still has friends, doesn't he?"

Sherlock gave a slight shrug. "Friends can turn. Children can be cruel."

"You'd know by experience."

"I never had any friends to turn against me in the first place."

"Right, and on that depressing note, I'm going to sleep." John set his book on the nightstand and reached over to flick the lamp off, shrouding the room in total darkness.

* * *

"Hamish, are the other children picking on you?" Sherlock asked one day, quite concerned for his son.

Hamish shook his head slowly, but kept his eyes on the floor as if ashamed of himself.

"Come here."

Hamish did not budge.

"Come _here_, Hamish," Sherlock tried a bit more sternly.

Hamish jumped a bit at his father's strict tone, but would not dare disobey an order twice. He walked up to Sherlock, completely avoiding all eye contact.

When Sherlock tried to touch Hamish's face and force him to make eye contact, Hamish only sharply turned his head to the side.

"What are you ashamed about?" Sherlock pondered out loud, more to himself than to Hamish. His eyes grew sad as he looked at his boy, so small, so beautiful, and already falling apart. He scanned his child's face, his body, looking for anything. Any sort of sign that could indicate why he was acting the way he was, but with avail. Sherlock could not find a single thing, and that was what scared him the most. Perhaps he was getting old.

After that, Hamish let out a small mewl. "Papa, my head hurts."

"No it doesn't." Sherlock's voice was firm.

"Yes it does," Hamish argued, holding his head in his hands as if to prove his point.

Obviously, Sherlock didn't believe him. But he did not press the situation further.

Of all the mysteries Sherlock had been called to solve, he had never been as determined as this. He was absolutely resolute that he would find what, or who, was causing his son to turn into him.

After that, Hamish stopped eating.

* * *

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't like pizza."

"Well of course you do," John told his child. "Every kid likes pizza."

"Well I don't."

"You liked pizza a week ago."

"Not anymore."

He looked up at Sherlock and the two of them shared very concerned glances.

* * *

"Hamish!" John gasped, absolutely horrified. "Get your hand out of your trousers!" He hissed as quietly as possible. They were standing in the middle of the supermarket, for god's sake.

"It itches," Hamish complained.

"Yes well you can't scratch it here."

"Why not?" The boy asked, genuinely curious.

"Because it's not proper, that's why."

"Oh." But he didn't sound convinced.

* * *

John and Sherlock set up a parent-teacher conference. It didn't turn out so well.

"Hamish gets along with the other kids," Mr. Kennedy explained. "He's a quick reader, and I've never seen him being teased. Are you telling me there's a problem at home?"

John and Sherlock exchanged glances. There was no sign of any problems that could have come from school. He played with kids and acted normal in class, so why was Hamish constantly tired and uncooperative at home?

"He's just quiet around us is all," John explained. "He didn't used to be."

"Ah," Mr. Kennedy nodded. "Well, he's in that stage now I suppose."

"Yes, probably," John nodded, although he had absolutely no idea what Mr. Kennedy had exactly meant by that.

The conference ended with more questions than answers, and both John and Sherlock were thoroughly disappointed.

"Can't you like, deduce something?" John asked later that night. "Isn't that what you do?"

Sherlock sighed. "I can't, John. Our son is an enigma. I've tried. There is nothing in his environment that would cause him to act like this."

"Is it something we're doing?" John wondered out loud. "Are we not paying enough attention to him? Is that it, is he doing this for attention?"

"No, that's not it."

"Is he sick? Should we take him to a doctor? What if he's anorexic?"

"John for god's sake, he's six years old."

"I treated an eight year old anorexic once," John argued. "Six isn't that much younger."

"No, no, that's not it," Sherlock waved his hand.

"Then what?"

Silence fell upon the both of them. Sherlock looked directly into his husband's eyes for quite a good long while, his face stoic and almost completely devoid of any emotion. Then, his expression softened and he let out a sigh. "I don't know, John. I just don't know."

At that moment, soft crying could be heard across the hall. Alarmed, both parents got up to see what the matter was, and what they found concerned them greatly.

Hamish had wet the bed.

* * *

That was not the last time Hamish had woken up in wet pants.

And one day, Mr. Kennedy had called for another conference.

Hamish had tried to grab another boy's genitals.

He got off with a warning, but John and Sherlock were quite displeased. And very confused.

"Why?" John asked.

"I wanted to," was Hamish's reply.

"You can't do that," John lectured his son.

"Why not?"

"Hamish, they're called private parts for a reason. You can't touch other people's private parts. The only ones who can touch your private parts are you and your doctor, do you understand me?"

"No."

"Oh for Christ's sake."

* * *

About halfway into the school year, Hamish's class was putting on a parade. They had all decided on what they'd like to be when they grew up, and they were to dress up as that occupation and around the school a few times.

John was only a little offended when Hamish declared he wanted to be a detective rather than a doctor. The boy had gotten quite into the project, and both John and Sherlock were very pleased to see their son acting the most normal he had ever been since the start of the school year. Hamish hadn't even complained of a headache once during that week.

On the day of the parade, Hamish was dressed and smiling radiantly, his little white teeth on display for the whole world to see. When Sherlock came downstairs, he was absolutely mortified and tore the deerstalker from Hamish's head, hissing "John, I can't _believe_ you." To which John and Hamish only laughed at. "I won't stand for my son looking that idiotic."

John snuck the deerstalker into the cab and put it back on his son's head anyways, and Sherlock shot him quite a dirty look.

"I like it, papa," Hamish tried to say.

"Yes well papa thinks it's ridiculous. Real detectives don't wear stupid things like that, and daddy only let you wear it to spite papa."

"Well, maybe if you had let him dress up as a doctor," John declared.

"Oh please," Sherlock huffed. "You're really going to compete our professions now?"

"Well I don't care if real detectives wear it," Hamish interrupted. "When I'm a detective, I'll wear one too."

Sherlock could have screamed.

The atmosphere in the cab was rather cheerful, for the first time in quite a few months. John couldn't remember the last time the whole family had smiled all at the same time together. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time anybody in his family smiled in the first place. Hamish was bubbly and chattering all about what he was going to do as a detective. It had been so long since he had used sentences longer than five words. It was comforting. And perhaps John let his guard down just long enough to believe that maybe everything had magically been cured.

Getting to school was the easiest part. Getting into the classroom, not so much.

John noticed that the closer the three of them got to the classroom, the smaller, slower steps Hamish took, as if intentionally prolonging their trip.

"Hamish, hurry up." Sherlock held out his hand for his son to take, but Hamish only shook his head. He had stopped speaking again.

They were the first people in the room, besides Mr. Kennedy. Immediately, Hamish went to the back corner of the room, which John found very peculiar. His son stood straight with his back against the wall, as if wanting to take up the least amount of space possible, or as if trying to camouflage himself against the wall paint. Trying to make himself disappear.

"Hamish, why don't you come out of the corner?" Sherlock suggested. Hamish shook his head roughly.

At that moment, Mr. Kennedy's voice rang out. "Hamish, your father told you to get out of the corner."

John watched Hamish's entire body flinch the moment the words were said, but the boy obeyed and reluctantly stepped into the light with his head bowed and his eyes straight to the floor. Something was off. Something was very off indeed.

Another boy entered the room, dressed as a very poor astronaut.

"That's absurd," Sherlock sneered, to which John elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

All of a sudden, Hamish was smiling again, running up to the boy. He grabbed the boy's hand and led him to the play area of the classroom, where they both sat down and proceeding to open up the cupboard of dinosaurs.

It was odd seeing Hamish play with other children. He resembled Sherlock so much it was almost like watching a child Sherlock play with other children. John started to laugh, having to stifle it and pretend to cough in order to cover it up.

Other children arrived, and soon Mr. Kennedy clapped his hands. "All right children, get in line, it'll be time now for the parade!"

The moment the words left Mr. Kennedy's mouth, John noticed his son flinch. How very odd.

Nonetheless, every child cooperated, getting into as straight a line as a bunch of six-year-olds could with only a small argument over who should be in front.

"They all look ridiculous," Sherlock huffed, sneering at the lot of brightly dressed children. "This entire exercise is ridiculous."

"Shut up," John snapped. "It's _fun_."

Immediately after that, the parade left the building.

After the second march around the building, Sherlock was getting annoyed and impatient. "John, let's go home now."

"No, Hamish is having fun."

"Well I'm not."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," John whimpered sarcastically. "Poor little Sherlock doesn't want to stay at his son's parade. Let's call off the whole thing and go home, and maybe he'd like a coloring book in the cab because I apparently married a six-year-old."

Very offended, Sherlock gave John a menacing look and shut his mouth.

Luckily for Sherlock, the parade only lasted two more laps. During which John had tried to hold his son's hand like every other parent was doing, but was only met by Hamish's utmost refusal.

"Want to go home now, Hamish?" John asked.

Hamish nodded eagerly.

And perhaps Sherlock was ever more eager to go than his own child.

"Oh!" John spiked up suddenly. "Oh, wait Hamish, since we're out all together now, how about we all get some ice cream?"

Hamish perked up at his father's words. Perhaps the boy didn't like pizza anymore, but no child would turn down the offer for a cone of ice cream.

"John," Sherlock whined. But his husband chose to ignore him.

"Right then," John nodded. "We'll just cross this street then. Hamish, hold my hand."

Refusal.

"Hamish," John repeated. "This road is dangerous. You have to hold my hand or you'll be run over."

"I'm okay," Hamish insisted. "I'm not a baby." As if to prove his point, he stepped forward off the curb, just a single foot into the street.

"Hamish!" The street was empty and devoid of any car, but John still panicked and grabbed his son's forearm to pull him away from the road.

Hamish immediately screamed at the top of his lungs and began violently struggling in John's grasp. "No!" He cried out, grabbing at John's hands and trying to pry his fingers away.

John was startled by his son's reaction. He kept his hand around Hamish's forearm tight, stunned and frozen in the spot. He watched Hamish scream and writhe as if John were attacking him.

"No!" Hamish shrieked again. "No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be good! No more, please! I'm sorry! I'll be a good boy!"

Perhaps even more shocked now, John took a step back and released his child from his grasp. He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes full of questions and panic. In contrast, Sherlock stared at him as if the entire universe now made sense.

Hamish stumbled backwards, away from his parents and crossed his arms over his chest, grabbing at his own forearms as if creating a protective barrier around himself.

Their son looked absolutely traumatized. When John turned his head, he noticed the crowd of parents and children staring straight at them, probably wondering if Hamish was being abused. A few parents looked about ready to call the police.

"Hamish," Sherlock exhaled, as if he had just solved the mystery of a lifetime. "How long has this been going on?"

"Has what been going on?" John asked. "What? What do you mean Sherlock, tell me! What the hell is wrong with my son?"

Instead of answering John's question, Sherlock kept his attention on Hamish, dropping to his knees in front of his son like he had done the very first day of nursery school. "Has he hurt you?"

"Has _who_ hurt him?" John barked.

"John, open your eyes," Sherlock snapped back. "Can't you see that poor excuse for an instructor has been molesting our son?"

John let out a very audible gasp, his hands flying to cover his mouth. If he had been stunned by Hamish's behavior earlier, he was positively paralyzed right then. "Mr. Kennedy?" Oh, to be in a world of disbelief.

"Of course Mr. Kennedy," Sherlock sneered. "Who else could it be? Damn, I should have seen it. It should have been obvious. They're in the same room practically every day, of course it was him. Just the way he _acts_ around that pathetic excuse for a man."

"Oh, Hamish." John exhaled deeply.

Hamish began visibly shaking. When Sherlock placed two firm but gentle hands on his shoulders, the boy flinched. "Papa…"

"It's all right," Sherlock whispered. "Papa won't hurt you. Papa will never hurt you. Papa isn't like that bad man."

"Mr. Kennedy isn't a bad man," Hamish said in a rather small voice. "He's my teacher."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, Hamish. Any adult who touches you inappropriately is a bad man. Do you understand me?"

Hamish looked positively confused, but he obeyed his father and nodded once.

"Oh god," John sighed. "Oh god, oh my god."

At that precise moment, Mr. Kennedy walked up to the scene. "Is everything all right?" He asked, as if deeply concerned.

John couldn't control himself. He inhaled sharply, ground his teeth together, and clenched his hands into fists by his side, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't help it. He knew there was a crowd watching, but there was a disgusting man in front of him and he would not stand for it. And so he raised his arm and gave Mr. Kennedy a terrific sock in the jaw.

Mr. Kennedy cried out in pain and landed on the sidewalk.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing his husband by the waist and pulling him away from the child abuser. He gave John a stern look before stepping towards the very man who had defiled their son. He reached out an arm for Mr. Kennedy to take.

"Sherlock, no," John tried to stop him, but Sherlock pushed him away.

Mr. Kennedy graciously accepted Sherlock's hand, allowing the detective to help him to his feet.

Only to have Sherlock punch him square in the nose.

* * *

The police were indeed called that day. The crowd of parents was rather shocked to watch the man in charge of their children being loaded into the back of a police car.

The Holmes-Watson family did not stick around to see what happened next.

The ride home was completely silent, save for John whispering over and over "it's okay, Hamish. Nobody's going to hurt you. It's okay. It's okay."

Back at the flat, Hamish was sent up to his room so daddy and papa could have a grown up talk.

Sherlock paced the sitting room back and forth, fingers absent-mindedly dragging across his lips and jawline. In contrast, John sat in his armchair, his head in his hands.

"How could we have let it go on for so long?" Sherlock wondered.

"It's not your fault," John sighed. "Don't beat yourself over it, then we'll really get nowhere."

"It should have been _obvious_."

"It probably was obvious," John noted. "You probably did figure it out. Hell, I probably figured it out. But we kept silent and pretended we didn't."

"_Why_?" Sherlock asked in bewilderment.

"Because neither of us wanted to believe it."

Sherlock shook his head violently. "You mean to tell me we put ourselves in denial to make ourselves feel better at the expense of our son's health and well-being?"

John frowned. "Are we terrible parents?"

"Horrible," Sherlock answered.

John sighed again. "Fuck."

Later on, they called Hamish back down for a serious talk. John let him sit in his armchair. Of course, Hamish was so small his feet dangled off the edge. But it was comfortable nonetheless.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, legitimately concerned.

Hamish thought for a while before giving a short nod.

"You saw the police take him away," Sherlock acknowledged. "Do you understand what that means?"

Hamish nodded again. "It means he's not coming back."

"That's right, Hamish. He won't touch you again."

This time it was Hamish to let out a sigh of relief.

"Can you answer some questions for me?" John asked.

Hamish nodded once more.

"Good." John cleared his throat. "I'm going to ask you a few things. Now, you have to understand that these are very private questions and they are not to be repeated at school, at the store, or anywhere without my permission. Do you understand?"

"Yes, daddy."

"I am asking these questions because I am your father, and also a doctor. You cannot let anyone else besides your parents or a doctor that I approve of ask these questions, and if you feel uncomfortable answering anything, you don't have to answer. Understand?"

Another nod.

"All right, Hamish. Now, when did Mr. Kennedy touch you?"

Hamish licked his lips a few times. His eyes shifted to Sherlock's, as if asking for papa's approval to answer. Sherlock gave a short nod, so Hamish opened his mouth. "During playtime. When the other kids were playing outside, he made me stay inside for extra work because I said I liked it."

"But he didn't give you work, did he?" John asked.

Hamish reluctantly shook his head. "He did at first. But then he didn't."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, Hamish. Okay." He swallowed deep before asking his next question. "And where…" his voice caught. "Where did Mr. Kennedy…touch you?"

Hamish made a funny face, pressed his knees together tightly, and hunched his shoulders.

"You don't have to answer, Hamish," Sherlock reminded him.

Hamish looked as if he were about to cry, but he shook his head. "No, I want to help. He…he touched me here." He spread his hand around the area of his chest.

"_You're a very cute boy, Hamish," Mr. Kennedy said. "Your skin is very soft. May I touch it?"_

"Especially here," where he pointed to where his nipples were underneath his shirt.

"_Very nice, Hamish. You're being such a good boy. Don't make a sound, all right? Otherwise I'll get very angry, and you don't want me to be angry do you?"_

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably where he was standing. "And here," Hamish slid his hands down his thighs. "And…" he gulped. "Here."

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away the moment Hamish pointed at his own crotch.

"Oh god," John whimpered. He watched Sherlock turn his head as if he couldn't stand being in the room one more second. It was positively painful for him. Well, for both of them.

"Did…did he take off your trousers?"

Hamish nodded slowly.

"Did he take off your pants?"

"Sometimes," was Hamish's answer.

With that being said, Sherlock walked briskly out of the room and shut the door behind him, unable to bear another moment. The words were poison to his ears.

"_It's okay, Hamish. I'm your teacher, you can trust me. I just want to look at it. Make sure it's healthy. It won't take very long, just a quick look. My my, oh very nice, what a good boy. Can I touch it? I am your teacher after all, it's okay for me to do this. You can't tell your parents, though. They won't understand."_

"Did he take off _his_ trousers?" John asked, dreading the answer.

Hamish nodded slowly.

"_See? That wasn't so bad, was it? You can see mine if you like, Hamish. This is what it'll look like when you're a bit older. Maybe I'll be there to look at it again one day when you're grown up. Would you like that, Hamish?"_

"Christ," John exhaled, falling onto the sofa with an arm draped over his eyes. He croaked out "my son," as if the very word had been defiled along with every last shred of Hamish's innocence. He took three deep breaths, stared up at the ceiling a bit, and then straightened his back up to look Hamish straight in the eye. "Thank you, Hamish. You've been a good boy."

Hamish perked up at that. "I'm a good boy?"

"Yes," John nodded. "You're a very good boy. Now, do you want some ice cream?"

"Where did papa go?" Hamish asked, completely ignoring the question.

John pressed his lips into a thin line. "Papa is a bit sensitive. He'll be back soon."

"Oh." After a little bit of silence, Hamish spoke again. "Daddy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Is Mr. Kennedy going to jail?"

John scoffed. "I hope so. I'll bloody make sure he does."

They both smiled at each other.

* * *

Hamish went to a doctor after that. A doctor specializing in child sexual abuse. After a few tests, Hamish was deemed clean as a whistle and extremely lucky.

Mr. Kennedy was clever enough to not leave his mark. Hamish never came home with bruises or any signs of sexual activity.

The doctor asked him all the same questions John had asked. Hamish looked at his father, as if asking permission to answer the questions. When John gave him a slight nod, he told the doctor everything that he had told his daddy.

"Therapy," the doctor ordered. "And lots of it. Take him out of school for a while, the entire experience has completely deranged his perception of teachers. Mr. Holmes, are you listening?"

Sherlock snapped his attention back to the doctor. "Yes, yes. Take him out of school. Therapy. Fine, fine, all of it's fine."

"Sherlock…" John put a hand on his husband's shoulder. "Please don't tell me you still blame yourself."

"I don't."

"Then what?"

Silence.

The doctor coughed.

Sherlock finally opened his mouth. "I…" he sighed. "I thought he was going to be normal. I thought he wasn't going to turn out like…like me."

"Sherlock, you were never molested."

"That's not what I mean," Sherlock snapped. "All I wanted was for him to have a normal childhood. And yet here we are, the Holmes bloodline screwed up again."

"He can still have a normal childhood," John tried to explain. "He's only six. Okay maybe he won't forget this, but he can still have friends and laugh and play and be normal. We'll home school him for the rest of the year. Teach him how to get used to teachers again. He'll be okay, Sherlock. This isn't the end of his life."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder and kept his mouth shut, as if he didn't believe John, but he wasn't about to fight in the presence of another doctor.

They signed Hamish up for counseling twice a week.

Sherlock stopped taking cases in favor of staying home to teach Hamish. John was skeptical, of course because Sherlock would be a horrible teacher, but Sherlock insisted that since John was the one with the more stable job, it would be better for him to work and Sherlock to stay home. Teaching would definitely pass the time. John eventually agreed, on the condition that it would all end and John would be the one to teach Hamish if he ever came home to find a fire truck outside the door.

* * *

"And what do you do if an adult asks you to take off your trousers?"

"I scream for help and run away."

"Good boy, Hamish!"

As part of Sherlock's new and improved system of education, Hamish participated in molestation prevention 101 (John named it. He meant it as a joke, but the name stuck). Every week, he and Sherlock went over the rules of adults, by approval of Hamish's counselor. Never go anywhere with a strange adult. It is not okay for adults to touch inappropriately. It is not okay to keep it a secret if one does happen to cop a feel. Any adult who tries to touch is a bad person, and it's okay to tattle on them. Hamish was such a quick learner.

It was Sherlock's idea to enroll him in martial arts classes, much to John's surprise. They'd be good, though. It'd pass the time, at least.

John came home one night with a giant box of pizza.

Hamish was ecstatic.

"How are my boys?" John asked, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. "Hamish, what did you learn today?"

"Papa's been teaching me how to cut flesh without ruining the arteries!"

"Blimey," John breathed, and shot Sherlock a warning glance.

"You forgot to tell your father," Sherlock said quickly in order to save his own arse. "That we're also learning the solar system."

"Is that so?" John raised an eyebrow. "Are you teaching him, or is he teaching you?"

Sherlock looked positively offended as John gave him a snarky little smirk.

"Sounds like you had a good day then, Hamish." John knelt in front of his son and opened his arms wide, beckoning his child to him.

Hamish hesitated. At first, he looked unsure of what he was supposed to do. Then he heard Sherlock's voice. "Go over the rules in your head, Hamish. This is a hug. What is the rule for hugs?"

Hamish thought for a while. "The rule for hugs is…that…" he cocked his head to the side. "That if it's daddy, it's okay!" and he came running, practically leaping into John's arms.

John laughed and gave his son a nice, tight squeeze. "Good boy, Hamish. You're such a good boy."

* * *

Later that night, just as John finished turning off the lamp, Sherlock spoke his name.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Do you know what I wish?"

"No. Enlighten me."

Sherlock snuggled up close to his husband. "I wish…that we had been my parents when I was a child."

John snorted and tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "That's probably the most preposterous thing I've ever heard you say in your entire life."


End file.
